GENERAL MARSHALL DEPARTED Washington for the Conference of Foreign Ministers in Moscow on March 5. He would be out of the country for several weeks, with meetings spread across Paris, London, and West Berlin. Before boarding his airplane, Marshall addressed a phalanx of reporters and photographers, making his first public declaration of the crisis. Gazing out at the press with his ice-blue eyes, vapor rising from his mouth as he spoke in the near-freezing air, Trumans secretary of state said what he believed was at stake. The New York Times reported that Marshall called the issue of “primary importance,” and “so far reaching and of such tremendous importance” that a formal declaration of policy “could properly come only from the president himself.” The chilly morning was a fitting backdrop as he delivered the grim news: the economy of Greece had “deteriorated to the point of collapse,” and “in the light of the world situation, this is a matter of primary importance to the United States.”
The key players in the White House and the State Department had been stunned by the notice of British withdrawal from their former role as guarantor of international stability. In Asia, Africa, and the Middle East, the British had maintained a vast sphere of influence with a mixture of deft diplomacy, an assumption of superiority, and occasional brute force. The British Empire could be cruel and exploitative, but had also spread the blessings of improved health care, sanitation, transportation, education, and the rule of law to some of the unlikeliest corners of the earth. Having been born, educated, and trained in a world largely shaped by Great Britain, it was difficult for Truman and his men to imagine the changes that were sure to come. Assumptions shaping international affairs for two centuries were suddenly outdated and of no use in the crisis now erupting between the United States and the USSR.
As surprising as the news of February 21 had been, US policy makers were given some warning that Britain’s reign was coming to an inglorious end. The Second World War produced vast upheavals from 1939 to 1945, but the declaration of peace in August 1945 brought little respite. The Soviet Union was on the march, Attlee’s England was in decline, and American leaders looked upon the Atomic Age’s dawn with a mix of both exhilaration and fear.
Britain’s parlous economic state was hardly a secret; only American loans had made it possible for the UK to finance its war effort, and it was obvious that their financial reserves were exhausted. The British foreign secretary, Ernest Bevin, and the then secretary of state James F. Byrnes had conferred on numerous occasions about Britain’s economic and strategic challenges in the wake of the war.
Soviet ambitions had been set in motion. Like a shark smelling blood in the ocean, Stalin was ready to move on Britain’s former colonies and clients. Truman and the British prime minister, Clement Attlee, knew the “Man of Steel” was not to be trusted. He had already reneged on his promise of free elections in Poland and as other Eastern European countries fell under the Soviet’s shadow, this dictator would not hesitate to devour any territory that showed itself vulnerable. While the British and American people longed for a return to normalcy and a retreat from world affairs, Soviet leaders sensed a historic opportunity to launch outward offensives in all directions. The Second World War had exacted a sickening cost on the Russian people, and Stalin was determined that the USSR would never be invaded again.
The signs of Soviet aggression were most evident in Iran. The British and the Russians had occupied that oil-rich state in 1941 to keep the Germans from exploiting its resources. Under the terms of an agreement with the Iranians, the occupiers were to withdraw within six months of an Allied victory, and had committed to “respect the territorial integrity, sovereignty, and political independence of Iran.” True to their word, the British had departed by the designated date, March 2, 1946. The Russians, meanwhile, remained in place. Having seized his prize, Stalin was not about to allow something as trivial as a treaty to dislodge Russian troops. Rather than withdraw, Stalin dispatched tanks and additional soldiers into the region. The British and the Americans looked on with alarm as these new formations moved west toward the borders of Turkey and Iraq. Brushing off diplomatic protests, the USSR relentlessly strove to extend its reach.
Thus, it was alarming but unsurprising when Stalin trained his eye on Greece and Turkey. The Soviet Union had long coveted unfettered access to the Mediterranean through the Black Sea, an ambition that Turkey had repeatedly thwarted. In August Stalin declared a desire to “defend” the Turkish straits, which naturally would have required a strong Soviet military presence in Turkey. Acheson sent a cable to then Secretary of State Byrnes recommending a stance that would find its ultimate expression in the Truman Doctrine:
In our opinion the primary objective of the Soviet Union is to obtain control over Turkey. We believe that if the Soviet Union succeeds in introducing into Turkey armed forces with the ostensible purpose of enforcing the joint control of the Straits, the Soviet Union will use these forces in order to obtain control over Turkey. . . . In our opinion, therefore, the time has come when we must decide that we shall resist with all means at our disposal any Soviet aggression and in particular, because the case of Turkey would be so clear, any Soviet aggression against Turkey. In carrying this policy our words and acts will only carry conviction to the Soviet Union if they are formulated against the background of an inner conviction and determination on our part that we cannot permit Turkey to become the object of Soviet aggression.
In a preview of future events, Truman conferred on August 15 with Acheson; Forrestal; and General Dwight D. Eisenhower, then chief of staff of the army, about how best to deal with the Turkish crisis. Their options were made more complicated by the fact the Soviets had shot down unarmed US military transports during a dispute about postwar Italian and Yugoslavian territory. Speaking on behalf of his colleagues, Acheson recommended dispatching an aircraft carrier to Turkey as a response to the Turkish request for assistance and a demonstration of resolve.
When Truman agreed, Eisenhower raised a word of caution quietly asking whether those in the room were aware that such a decision could lead to war. In response, the president pointed to a map of the eastern Mediterranean and explained the importance of shielding it from Soviet infiltration. As Acheson recalled, “None of us doubted he understood fully all the implications of our recommendations.”
The intervention worked, and the Soviets backed down—for a time. An insatiable Russia would continue to probe for weak spots throughout Europe and the world. But Soviet actions had left little doubt that the eastern Mediterranean would be one of their principal targets.
The issue presented itself again later in the year, after the Democrats’ disastrous midterm election results. The Greek prime minister, Constantine Tsaldaris, visited Truman during a three-week trip to the United States in December, during which he was made an honorary citizen of New York. While in Washington Tsaldaris stayed in Blair House, the government’s official guest house for foreign leaders, and conferred with the president, Byrnes, and Acheson. The prime minister recalled later that Britain had encouraged him to ask the Americans for help. Unfortunately, the Greek leader was so extravagant in his request that Acheson later dismissed him as “a weak, pleasant, but silly man”; Greece’s opportunity to lay the groundwork for a serious first proposal was wasted. Truman felt more generous, having previously written to Acheson, “The Greeks were almost annihilated fighting our common enemy, the Germans, and while they have had some severe internal difficulty with the British, I can’t help but feel extremely friendly to the Greeks.” Warm feelings aside, Tsaldaris left Washington empty-handed. It would take a more decisive move from the British—and a more realistic set of policy proposals—to move the American machinery of government into action.
Truman needed more information before making a move on Greek aid. For this he turned to Paul A. Porter, the former chairman of the Federal Communications Commission. Porter was a lawyer and newspaperman from Kentucky who had been drawn to Washington to work in the Roosevelt administration. He began his government service as a legal assistant in the Department of Agriculture, and later served in senior positions in the Office of Price Administration and the Office of Economic Stabilization, both New Deal agencies. Roosevelt appointed him FCC chairman in 1944. In December 1946, just after his meeting with Tsaldaris, Truman tapped Porter to be the head of a new American Economic Mission to Greece, with the rank of ambassador. The New York Times reported, “It was regarded as a significant move by the United States in support of Greece in the face of the situation inherent in the fighting and chaos of the north.” In a portent of things to come, the article explained that Porter would “consider, specifically, the extent to which the Greek Government can carry out reconstruction and development through effective use of Greek resources and the extent to which foreign assistance may be required.”
Acheson announced the mission to the press and hailed the “valiant stand of the Greeks against the Nazi invasion, their continued resistance and sacrifice through the long occupation, and the hardships consequent upon the war which they have endured since liberation,” and noted the “close relationship with Greece, particularly because of cultural ties between the two countries, and because of the large numbers of American citizens of Greek descent.”
Porter was immediately struck by the grave conditions he discovered in the Greek countryside. In an article for Collier’s Magazine months later, he related the story of a Greek peasant he encountered who shrugged and said, “Four times in my lifetime my home has been destroyed—by the Turks, the Bulgars, the Nazis, and the guerrillas. Why should I build it up again?”
After a month of on-the-ground fact-finding, Porter amassed information helpful to Truman based not only upon discussions with the Greek government—which he despised—but also with hundreds of Greek citizens across the ravaged country. In a report to the State Department, the new ambassador diagnosed “the unhealthy psychological condition of the people . . . a sense of helplessness on their part; a feeling that because they suffered during the War they should now be cared for by their richer allies; a belief that the external factors in their problem are so large that their individual efforts are futile.”
He further lamented, “There is really no State here in the Western concept. Rather we have a loose hierarchy of individualistic politicians, some worse than others, who are so preoccupied with their own struggle for power that they have no time, even assuming capacity, to develop economic policy. The civil service is a depressing farce.”
Porter had little to say about the communist threat. A committed New Dealer, he suggested in his reports that economic aid alone would be enough to maintain the Greek government’s hold on power. Ambassador MacVeagh found those views narrow and naive, and urged him to take the problem of subversion more seriously. Porter reluctantly acceded.
EVEN BEFORE STALIN began showing his hand in Iran and Turkey, President Truman had received a powerful warning about Soviet designs in the unlikely setting of a college gymnasium in his home state of Missouri.
After five long years in power, the British wartime coalition came to an abrupt end with Labour’s withdrawl in the spring of 1945. Winston Churchill was no longer the leader of a national government but now simply a Tory prime minister in a country eager for change. A general election was set for July—the first in ten years—with Berlin smoldering in ruins and the war in the Pacific raging toward an epochal end. Before the results of Britain’s election were declared, Churchill joined Joseph Stalin and the new American president, Harry Truman, in Potsdam, Germany, for a conference to decide the immediate fate of the postwar world. Churchill’s former wartime deputy, Labour leader Clement Attlee, also attended, in case the ongoing count should elevate him in Churchill’s place. Few people, least of all Churchill, thought the defeat of the man considered the savior of the British Realm was possible, but it was with some trepidation that he returned to London in midconference for the declaration of the vote. Most in the prime minister’s entourage, confident that they would be returning with a triumphantly reelected prime minister, left their luggage behind.
It was not to be. The British people, exhausted by war, determined to punish the party of prewar appeasement, and eager to receive more expansive government benefits, voted for Labour in overwhelming numbers. The prime minister who had heroically guided his country to victory in the Battle of Britain was now unceremoniously booted out of 10 Downing. As the election results became clear, his wife, Clementine, remarked that the defeat might be “a blessing in disguise.” He glumly replied, “At the moment it seems quite effectively disguised.” A sympathetic King George VI tried to cushion the blow by offering Churchill membership in the Order of the Garter, the highest order of knighthood, but Churchill respectfully declined. With his customary humor he asked the sovereign, “How can I accept the Order of the Garter, when the people of England have just given me the Order of the Boot?”
Churchill was understandably shattered by the rejection, but with characteristic resilience and resolve he threw himself into writing memoirs, making good on his promise that history would be kind to him—for he would write it—and in the process, the former prime minister finally freed himself from a lifetime of debt. Churchill was far less keen on the mundane details of his new post as Leader of the Opposition, but the position was a necessary burden for the achievement of his fondest wish: a triumphant return to Downing Street.
Though out of power, Churchill still yearned to shape the course of world events. And in the escalating tensions between the Soviet Union and the West, a conflict he had foreseen while Stalin was still a wartime ally, he found a new cause and focus. The wartime alliance with the United States must be revived, Churchill believed, this time to thwart the threat of Soviet tyranny. A new conflict loomed—a cold war with a communist bloc that loathed Western democracy and sought to crush the free will of its subjects. Such an evil must be resisted, for after the sacrifices required to destroy Nazism, now was not the time to appease another tyrant.
But British foreign policy was fashioned by the government, led by the new prime minister, Clement Attlee. Though Attlee was a good and honorable man, Churchill believed him ill equipped to lead this crusade. The former prime minister would derisively dismiss his successor as “a sheep in sheep’s clothing.” With another general election far in the future, Churchill feared he had no time to lose. How could he regain his voice, and reinvigorate Britain’s old alliance with the Americans?
The answer came in the unlikely form of a letter from the president of Westminster College in Fulton, Missouri, an obscure institution with a few hundred students, inviting him to accept an honorary degree and deliver a speech. Churchill would have declined the invitation under normal circumstances; then as today, Fulton is remote and inaccessible to many. But handwritten at the bottom was a postscript that must have made the old war leader’s heart skip a beat: “This is a wonderful school in my home state. Hope you can do it. If you come, I will introduce you.” It was signed “Harry S. Truman.”
Laid before Churchill now was the extraordinary opportunity to deliver a speech in the American heartland that—however nondescript the venue—would command attention based on Churchill’s own celebrity. More importantly, it was also a chance to take a long train journey from Washington to Missouri and back with the president of the United States. The former prime minister would have many hours to cement a relationship with the leader he had only briefly met at Potsdam, and to gain Truman’s support for his postwar vision. Having the president by his side for the address would also imply American support for his stirring message. He swiftly accepted the invitation and the date was set: March 5, 1946.
In a lifetime filled with history-bending orations, Winston Churchill’s speech in the Westminster College gym would loom large among them. Before a swarm of journalists and news cameras, Churchill uttered perhaps the first public declaration of the new Cold War: “From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic an iron curtain has descended across the Continent. Behind that line lie all the capitals of the ancient states of Central and Eastern Europe. Warsaw, Berlin, Prague, Vienna, Budapest, Belgrade, Bucharest and Sofia; all these famous cities and the populations around them lie in what I must call the Soviet sphere, and all are subject, in one form or another, not only to Soviet influence but to a very high and, in some cases, increasing measure of control from Moscow.”
Truman remained noncommittal publicly about Churchill’s stunning Westminster speech—he denied, however implausibly, any knowledge of what his British guest was going to say. Though he was president of the United States, inside that Missouri gym Truman was a supporting player to the most famous statesman on earth. Did he feel, as the British journalist Alistair Cooke suspected, “wistful envy . . . in the immense shadow of Churchill?” Cooke thought later that the Truman Doctrine was conceived as the president listened to Churchill’s call to action. One year later, it would be the American president offering his vision for confronting the new scourge of Soviet tyranny. Churchill would indeed return to Downing Street as prime minister in 1951, and focus his remaining energies on brokering peace with the Russians, but he and his country would play only a supporting role in the Cold War drama that was to come. Though none in attendance could have been aware of it at Westminster, the torch of world leadership had been passed from Churchill to Truman inside that college gym built on the dusty plains of central Missouri.